Crispin Ninestar
Ben Spays sat cross-armed, sipping from a tin cup filled with tea. His sipping was deliberately loud and drawn out. Greyne felt it necessary to comment. “You sip with annoying intentions, young Spaygos.” He sipped his own drink, a medium lager with a cinnamon stick lodged in his nose. “I almost regret inviting you out for the very first time.” “Sorry,” replied Ben, “I’ll do better.” He sipped his drink again, but doing so more finely, and then entering a dubious cough, liquid shooting out onto the table. Greyne paid no mind. “So, what did you guys do this week? Anything fun?” asked Sinthaster to the two men. Spaygos spoke first. “I broke bread with a sewer denizen. My good deed for a three day period about.” “Nice. I was going about my usual mercenary business. Staring at people and being an otherwise menacing presence. Really, I have no other talents. I’m surprised you didn’t know this already.” said Greyne. Sinthaster shrugged. “Figured I’d ask.” A sizable yet beautiful woman wandered her way to their table. She held a large trey with mutton and brew on it. Asparagus too. “Hey boys,” she said with a flirt, bending over for obvious reasons, “I got some gifts for you three.” She transferred chops of mutton and drumsticks onto their table. A lot of them. The three men sat up straight and brought their mugs close to make room. It was odd, she continued to place plates of meat on the table. Enough plates to leave no room for anything else, even their elbows. The men sat quietly, confused. “Its from that man over there,” she pointed to the corner, “In the long black coat.” The woman husseled off with the tray under her arm. The men all adjusted themselves to see who their mysterious benefactor was. There in the corner adjacent to the fireplace indeed stood a tall and cloaked man. Golden hair. He did not smoke from a normal pipe like most men, but smoked from a rolled tobacco tube. He exhaled a maelstrom of smoke into the tavern. He grinned, as he felt the men gazing upon him. His arms did not hesitate to make amends to the grimy conditions. Instead, he sought well with the figures at hand, and carved his own sihlouette through his bequeathed cloud by walking through it. Hardly a conveyer of trivialities, the shy mug stain dripped accordingly from his thick stache. And what a stache it was. Portent and sly like sliced hams on a grill. His dark eyes fixated on them as he spun them around in circles in his mind. Yes, the ol’ ring around the rosie. The poxton prance, known for its devilishly efficient methodology. You could tell a lot about a man from who he surrounded himself with. Liars, charmers, sextants, and exhiled priesthoods the lot of them. He had seen them all. No doubt in their minds, for anyone could tell. A man of such stature was worth no less than the highest most pious who buyest the finest fruits of life and labour. Perfect teeth, too. He dragged upon his tobacco. It was almost as if the tavern became quiet. It didn’t actually become quiet, of course, it just seemed that way. Time bent freely around his mysterious complexion. A viscous mix of patterned tweed and dangerous leather. Hardly a sight for children of sensitive years, it was. Fashion so mind fuckingly fine that even Greyne had to mutter, “Damn.” “What?” asked Sinthaster. “His fashion.” pointed out Greyne. The man slowly trolleyed over to the table where the men sat, now reeking of freshly cooked meats. He looked at them menacingly, and they upon him. He sniffed deeply, sniffs so loud they could be heard from across the bar. “Good evening fellas,” he finally uttered. Spaygos swallowed, nervous to hear such a rigidly rocky voice. The men sat in a stupor. One of amazement or confusion was anyone’s guess. Ten on the latter. “I…” started Greyne. “I see that you’ve-“ “I got you some meats, boys.” said the man, cutting him off. He breathed deeply and loudly. He dragged his tobacco. “Enjoy them. They’ll make you strong.” He then took a hot steak began to eat it before them. His table manner were questionable, but he was clean enough. After smacking on half of a piece of steak, he let the rest drop to the floor, and took another fresh one and stuffed it into his long coat. “One for the road.” “Sir, who the daylights are you?” asked Sinthaster, sounding rather annoyed. As he asked this the larger server woman came by and accidentally hit him with her arm. He lurched forward and fell onto the meat, and began a long string of coughs. He corrected himself and fixed his coat. “Forgive me, comrades. My name is Crispin. My family name is Ninestar. I already know one of your friends, though you may not know who. He helps me in my quest to defeat my rival.” Crispin lit another wacky tobaccy. Sinthaster shook his head in engrossing disbelief. Spaygos took the wheel from here. “So who’s your rival Mr. Ninestar?” he asked, chewing on a delicious turkey drumstick, juices trailing down his face and onto his pleated jacketvestthing. “Larry Donaldson.” A man walked by him and sat down in the booth next to them, and Crispin’s eyes followed him the whole way. “That was him actually.” He remained standing there. No one knew what to say. Category:NPC Characters